


you don't have to sing it right (but who could call you wrong)

by Japery



Series: to noise making (sing) [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017 World Juniors Summer Showcase, 2019 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Anal Sex, Car Sex, Consensual Somnophilia, Dirty Talk, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Facials, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Light Cowboy Kink, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Road Head, Under-negotiated Kink, Underage Drinking, and they were ROOMMATES, local twinks express feelings through sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 15:25:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18741778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Japery/pseuds/Japery
Summary: “So I didn’t know you and G knew each other so well.” Gabe says, settling into his seat and adjusting the sleep mask—silk and monogrammed, Cale notes--around his neck.Cale’s not sure how well he actually knows Sam Girard, but he guesses he’s gotten pretty good at having sex with him.Instead of like, saying that to his new captain, Cale just shrugs. “You know, Team Canada.”





	you don't have to sing it right (but who could call you wrong)

**Author's Note:**

> i don't claim to know and mean no harm to the people represented in this fic, if you found this by googling yourself or anyone you know, i'd advise you to click right on out of here.
> 
> i wanted to write something quick and dirty to celebrate playoffs and my favorite elite twink d-pairing, and this is the quickest thing i've ever written and it's still 7k of twink porn. i didn't do any actual research into the 2017 world juniors summer showcase camp except for the rosters, but the playoffs stuff is fairly accurate up through the avs/flames series. 
> 
> thanks to erica, em, and tarra for beta-ing this for me, hozier's "to noise making (sing) for the title, and the avs for staying in the playoffs and keeping me emotionally stable as i finish up my last semester.

Cale finds his new d-partner lounging over an armchair in the lobby, trying to flick playing cards down the impractically low collar of Pierre-Luc Dubois’ shirt in the chair next to him. 

He’s a shadowy, little slip of a man, with dark, sleepy eyes and a focused set to his jaw as his tongue darts between his teeth in concentration. 

“Are you Girard? I’m Cale. Cale Makar. We’re partnered up?” Cale asks, and the man looks up at him implacably, Jack of Hearts pressed between his thumb and forefinger. He nods, so lightly it’s almost imperceptible. 

“You’re smaller than I thought you would be.” Cale tells him honestly. He’s used to being the smallest defenseman on the team, used to being paired up guys more Duber’s size than Girard’s, especially in national tournament camps like this, where they usually just paired stats with stats to start out with and called it a day. Girard blinks at him slowly, raises an eyebrow, and mutters something in French. 

Duber snorts with laughter, sending a cascade of playing cards plastered to the collar of his shirt tumbling down his chest. Cale’s eyes widen, and his cheeks color as he feels like he’s being made fun of to his face. 

“What’d he say?” Cale demands, more harshly than he means. Girard smirks at him, dark eyes tracing over the blush crawling up to Cale’s ears, and Cale ducks his head, clenching his jaw.

Dubois laughs again, brushing a Three of Clubs off his collarbone. He says something in French to Girard, who shakes his head at him. Duber looks between Cale and Sam, and tells him, between strained laughter. “He said, ‘Not where it matters.’” 

Cale turns beet red, staring at Girard like he’s crazy. Girard just shrugs and gives him a serene little smirk. Then, so quickly you could hardly even notice, he winks. Cale sputters and swivels on his heel, barreling past the pair of laughing Frenchmen towards the elevators. There’s a rush of air past his neck, and something catches in his collar as he steps in past the closing elevator doors. 

Cale palms at his neck, and pulls off the crisp figure of the Jack of Hearts. 

//

All things considered, Girard is a good partner. He’s quick on the uptake and even quicker on his feet, sending him seam passes with effortless ease, and undressing unsuspecting slower defensemen with a spin-o-rama that makes Cale think he’s in the middle of a ballet. 

It’s just—and Cale would never blame anyone for not speaking English, if anything, it’s his fault for not paying enough attention to his French immersion classes—Cale can’t understand a single word Girard says to him, when he chooses to say anything. 

Girard doesn’t talk much, as a rule, and Cale is sure that has something to do with his tenuous grasp of English, and when he does say something, it’s noticeable. He mutters, little remarks under his breath that Cale doesn’t understand. Cale’s just doing drills, or his stretches on the bench, and Girard’s eyes go dark, and he says something, and Cale can’t understand a word. 

And maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s something else, that makes Cale feel just a little bit out of step—like they’re in the middle of a dance and Girard’s ready to waltz when all Cale knows how to do is the foxtrot. There’s something about Girard that makes something tighten in Cale’s chest, like he doesn’t understand. Like he’s not in on the joke, like the joke’s on him. 

Although—

They’re in the middle of a scrimmage with Sweden, and Sam picks the pocket of one of the Swedish defensemen. Cale pushes past the blue line, legs pumping as he races to keep pace. He meets eyes with Sam, across the ice, and the pass threads seamlessly past a defenseman to the middle of Cale’s stick. 

It sinks satisfying into the back of the net, and Sam is the first to meet him, rushing forward to wrap his arms around his shoulders. His touch is warm, and his eyes are shining, and his lips are bitten red. 

“Nice pass.” Cale gets out, and Sam smiles at him, bright and boundless. Cale looks at him, breathless, and thinks this partnership might just work out. 

Sam’s hand rests warm on his stomach, and he drags his forefinger over the Canadian leaf of the logo up to Cale’s chest. Cale looks down to watch him, reverently, and Sam suddenly jerks his finger upward to flick him on the chin. Sam smirks, and Cale sputters, and that’s all they get before Duber shows up to catch them both in his wingspan. 

// 

They give him a new partner and put Sam on a different squad for the actual tournament. Cale’s not sure if he’s relieved or not.

The night before, Cale knocks on Sam’s door, Jack of Hearts tucked in his front pocket. 

Girard opens up the door, in a Shawnigan shirt so small it might as well be a crop top. 

“Hey,” Cale says, heart a nervous flutter in his chest. He feels a little stupid, not sure how much he can say that Sam will understand. “I just wanted to say—” 

“Good luck too, Makars.” Sam finishes for him. “You will need it.” He says, more quiet confidence than cockiness. Cale’s eyes widen, and he must make a really stupid face, because Sam takes the opportunity to hook a finger in the collar of his shirt and drag him into a kiss. 

Cale murmurs against his mouth, surprised, as Sam’s tongue traces over his lips. Sam’s kiss is deep, and exacting, drawing warmth from Cale’s lips as he mines into his mouth. Cale kisses back, almost out of reflex, hand wrapping all the way around Girard’s hip to brace himself. This is it, he thinks. This is the joke. And then, just as soon as it started, it’s over. 

“You speak English?” Cale asks, lips still tingling. He’s endlessly confused, and more than a little offended. 

Girard smirks at him. “Enough.” He says, leaning forward to peck the blush over Cale’s cheek softly. “Good night, Makars.” Girard declares, and Cale’s heart is beating too fast to stop himself as he tightens his grip around Girard’s hip and angles himself to press their lips together again. 

“You missed,” Cale murmurs against his lips, as Sam lets out a breath into his mouth. “Can’t finish anything yourself, can you?” Cale teases, and Girard rolls his eyes as he slides a hand under Cale’s shirt to pinch at one of Cale’s nipples. Cale’s breath catches, and Sam smirks against his mouth. 

Sam wraps his other arm against Cale’s waist and pulls him into his hotel room. Sam guides him through by his hips, all the while laying kisses over Cale’s mouth, and jaw, and neck. He pushes Cale onto the bed, where he scrambles to lay himself over the sheets, and there’s a little noise from the bed on the other side of the room. 

Cale turns bright red as he realizes Duber is on the other bed, headphones half-on, mouth half-open. Sam curses, says something at him in French, presumably telling him to get the fuck out. Duber shakes his head, gathering his stuff into his pockets as quickly as he can. 

“You can go to my room, if you want.” Cale supplies helpfully, blush crawling up towards his ears. “Timms won’t mind.” He says, though he’s sure Conor very much would mind. 

Duber shakes his head again, and smiles lightly at Cale, like he knows a secret. “Have fun,” is all he says, slipping his headphones all the way on and brushing past Sam to leave. 

There’s a moment, hanging, now that they’re alone. Sam looks washed out and impossibly pale in the dim light of the hotel’s fluorescent bulbs. His hair curls up, sweaty and matted over his forehead. His pupils are blown out and his lips are bitten red, by Cale more than him, and that thought of that pools warm in Cale’s stomach. He’s all lithe, tight muscle, and more than he ever has since Cale has met him, he looks unsure. Cale wants to kiss that look off of his stupid, French face. 

“No threesomes?” Cale jokes awkwardly, fully aware of how red he is. Sam pauses a little, like he’s considering, but shakes his head. 

“No threesomes,” Sam says slowly, a smile creeping up on his face. “Not yet.” He finishes, stepping towards the bed with the express purpose of straddling Cale’s hips, licking his hand twice, and snaking it under Cale’s shorts. 

“Oh my god.” Cale exclaims, and his voice cracks, because of course it does. Sam raises an eyebrow at him and laughs, but he doesn’t take his hand off of Cale’s dick. His grip is nimble and focused, like every other part of him, even as he’s easing Cale’s shirt up and over his shoulders and throwing it haphazardly over to the other side of the room. 

Sam doesn’t do the same thing with Cale’s shorts just yet, choosing instead to brace himself against Cale’s thigh as he tightens his grip, and leans over to kiss him again. His kiss is as heavy as his touch, relentlessly drawing every noise he can out of Cale as he pumps at his dick. 

Suddenly, Sam draws away, making a thoughtful noise. “What?” Cale chokes out as Sam swipes his thumb over the head of his dick. 

Sam smiles, soft and easy. “You’re bigger than I thought.” He tells him, cheekily, and Cale’s about to tell him to shut up before he’s doing something with his hand that is too much for Cale’s pretty inexperienced eighteen year old body, and he’s coming in his shorts, and all over Sam’s cupped hand. 

Sam finally, finally eases off his shorts, just as Cale is sputtering, blushing more than he has all day, studying him carefully as he licks Cale’s come off his palm. Sam is staring at him, half appreciatively, half amused. 

“So that is how far down it goes.” Sam says, which makes Cale blush even harder. He chuckles, and leans over to trace kisses up from the tips of his ears, down his jaw, his chest, following the blush. When he reaches Cale’s come-splattered thighs, he looks up at him through his dark, delicate eyelashes, nods, and gets to work at lapping up every drop of come before it dries. He swirls his tongue over the head of Cale’s over-sensitive dick, and Cale shivers, grabbing him by the shoulder to pull him back into a halting, greedy kiss. 

“Are you gonna like, take your clothes off at all, or—” Cale asks, pulling Sam’s shirt at his shoulders. Sam rolls his eyes and quickly dispatches with his clothes, Cale takes in Sam’s body, slight and exquisite, and he wants to get his mouth all over it. 

He kisses Sam again, holding him by the shoulders as he rolls him onto the bed, mouthing over his long neck to find a space under his collarbone and bite down, hard enough to leave a mark. Sam hisses and digs his nails into Cale’s back. 

Cale presses Sam’s back against the headboard and gets between his legs, bracketing his thighs with each hand as he gives an experimental lick down Sam’s cock. He looks up at Sam determinedly, and swallows him as far down his throat as he can go. 

Sam threads his fingers through Cale’s hair as he sucks him in, hot and tight. For as much fun as he got out of how quick Cale finished, Sam doesn’t last much longer before he’s a shuddering mess beneath Cale, falling apart under his mouth and fingers, and says something in French as he bucks up into Cale’s mouth and comes down his throat. 

Cale swallows it down, licking his lips to savor the taste of it before Sam rushes up to kiss him again.

They kiss for a while, wrapped up in each other, Sam tucking in under his arm perfectly. “Can I stay the night?” Cale murmurs into Sam’s hair, threading his fingers over his hips. 

“No, I’m kicking you out.” Sam mutters, but he nuzzles closer to Cale’s chest anyway.

Cale wakes up the next morning to music coming from the bathroom, a soft lilting voice echoing over the porcelain. He blinks, pushing himself up, stomach tacky with dried come and he realizes it’s not a recording--Sam’s singing. Cale’s not sure what the song is—something in French, obviously—but Sam’s voice is melodic, better than anything he’s ever heard from a hockey player. 

It trails off as Sam pads out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his slight hips. “Oh, you’re awake.” Sam says, eyes shining as he looks down at him.

“We’ve got camp.” Cale says, voice faraway as his gaze traces a rivulet of water down Sam’s stomach and underneath his towel.

Sam strides over to the table, grabs his phone from the bedside table, and turns back to Cale with a slight smile. “Time enough to suck your dick, yeah?” 

Cale can’t disagree. 

//

Sam kisses him goodbye, running a thumb over his jaw reverently. “I’ll see you later, Cale Makars,” he says, and Cale is struck with it, the need to see him later, to play with him again, to see if their passing is even better after they’ve sucked each other’s dicks. 

It’s only after Sam closes the door behind himself, leaving Cale in the hallway, that Cale realizes he never gave back the card. 

//

Two years, a silver medal, one blockbuster trade, a lost Frozen Four, two planes in two countries later, and his first NHL game, his first NHL playoff game, and his first NHL goal later, and Cale Makar is finally on a team with Sam Girard again by every twist of fate. And by every twist of fate, Sam doesn’t even get to play. 

“You know, when they call someone to take my place, I should have known it would be you, Makars.” Cale is soaked through with sweat and excitement, the media finally leaving him alone in the locker room hallway for a second to catch his breath, and Sam Girard strides towards him in a tight suit and a crisp floral patterned shirt, the edges of tattoos peeking out from under his sleeve, all swooping dark hair and big, sleepy eyes and bright red lips in lazy, little smile; like he’s shrugging out to complete this dream Cale’s been having and he’s gonna wake up in his dorm room at Amherst with a mess in his sheets again. 

“They’ve only been talking about it forever.” Cale reminds him, rolling his eyes a little. “Your English has gotten better.” He notes, and Sam smiles wryly at him. 

“You’re bigger than I thought you would be.” He says, brushing Cale’s shoulder with his knuckles. Cale flushes immediately at the echo of it. He has gotten a little bigger, he supposes, bulked up, gone through a bit of growth spurt—he looks like he’s about an inch taller than Sam now, just an inch, but it feels like a lot. Suddenly, he’s eighteen again, with a playing card in his pocket and a crush he didn’t know he was nursing until the boy kissed him in a hotel hallway. 

“I’m—” Cale starts to say, when he’s interrupted by someone yelling down the corridor. 

“G, where the fuck are you hiding?!” Johnson yells, galumphing down the hallway as he’s shrugging on his suit jacket. He skids to a stop next to them, one eyebrow raised artfully. “Exchanging twink secrets huh? I’ve seen this porno.” He laughs, and Cale gets even redder, and—he notices Sam does too, a creeping blush at the tips of his ears. 

EJ claps one of his huge hands on Cale’s back and ruffles his hair affectionately. “You were a beast out there, kid! We’re taking you out for drinks.” 

“I can’t drink in the States.” Cale reminds him, and Sam snorts, rolling his eyes in a way Cale wants to think is fond. 

“Cute.” EJ says, exchanging a look with Sam. “We’ll get you virgin martinis like this one over here.” He smiles, endearingly toothless. “Virgin for the virgins.” He teases, and Cale’s too busy noticing Sam blush harder to blush himself, which is kind of an accomplishment for him. Lots of accomplishments tonight for Cale Makar. Sam is cute when he blushes, when something can get under his unflappable armor and stick, but then again, he’s kind of cute when he does anything. 

“You know I’m not a virgin.” Sam mutters challengingly to EJ, whose smile slips a little before he plasters it back on. 

“Well, let’s go before Barrie gets started without us and starts trying to ‘accidentally’ spill drinks on the captain’s lap again.” EJ says, ushering them both by the shoulders to walk and briskly taking pace ahead of them. Sam watches him as he goes, and very clearly checks out his ass in those suit pants before following. 

Cale blinks and well, huh. 

//

This is a party for him, ostensibly, but Cale spends most of it stewing at a table in the corner, nursing a virgin appletini, which is honestly just juice. 

On the dance floor, he’s trying and failing not to watch Sam and EJ dance up on each other to “Old Town Road,” the two of them laughing and obviously exchanging inside jokes as EJ sways Sam around like he weighs nothing—which he probably doesn’t to EJ, just like he doesn’t to Cale, who could totally do that if he wanted to. Nate sidles up next to him, moving the table with just his general thickness to do so, wearing a backwards baseball cap and a kindly expression. He has a beer with most of the label picked off, and Cale thinks he’s still working on the same one from the beginning of the night. 

“You doing all right, bud?” Nate asks, and Cale smiles up at him as well as he can. 

“I’m doing good, how ‘bout you?” He responds politely, and Nate raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Must’ve been a crazy couple of days, getting here and playing and everything.” 

Cale makes a noncommittal noise, and then shrugs. “It’s worked out so far. I’ll let you know if it starts not working out.” Sam’s hips are pressed up right to EJ’s crotch, and they’re grinding like it’s a fucking middle school dance out there. Cale downs his juice in one go. At that, Nate starts to follow his gaze, trying to figure out what he’s looking at. 

“You know, they’re kind of weird up in Quebec.” Nate starts, for some reason. Cale has a vague remembrance of his playing in the Q. “They’re really affectionate, with everyone, and even if you’re with someone it’s hard to tell when—” 

“Could you get me another drink, please?” Cale interjects, smile steady. “Sorry to interrupt, I’m just, really thirsty.” He lies through his teeth, but Nate seems to accept it, reluctantly. 

The song ends, and Sam drags EJ off the dance floor, laughing, hand tucked behind his neck to lead him towards the bathrooms. Nate comes back with his drink, and Cale takes a sip—

“There’s alcohol in this.” Cale sputters, and Nate looks at him sympathetically. 

“I think you need this one, bud.” Nate says, clapping him on the back. There’s no sign of Sam and EJ from the bathrooms, and Cale twitches, before deciding to chug this one as well. 

“Another.” He says, in his best approximation of Chris Hemsworth, though with a more delicate touch to the glass so he doesn’t break it. Nate gets him one, and then cuts him off. 

“We have a game tomorrow.” Nate reminds him gently, and Cale shrugs in his shoulders, and steals the rest of Nate’s beer when he’s not looking. He’s been drunk before, he went to college, but he’s really feeling it now, in this moment, surrounded by a team that is basically strangers half a country away from home, watching the one guy he really wants to know do whatever the fuck with an older, bigger, funnier guy who somehow has a nicer smile without having nearly as many teeth, and everyone says he’d dragged his team to the Frozen Four finals but he collapsed before the finish line and yet he’s the one who gets rewarded for it—and this is some fucking reward. 

“I’m taking you home, Makars.” Sam says, appearing before him like an angel descending from the heavens. 

“Haven’t you been drinking?” Cale asks, and Sam rolls his eyes. 

“No, you’ve been drinking.” 

“No, I’ve been drinking.” Cale shoots back snidely. There’s an arm wrapping around him—Nate, he supposes—and he’s being shepherded into the passenger seat of a very nice car. Someone—Johnson he thinks, with a sneer—makes a joke about Sam falling asleep at the wheel as they get his seatbelt on and head to their own cars, and Sam says something like he wouldn’t, not with—

Sam’s car is nice. It smells like cinnamon and cloves, and he plays soft classical music that settles Cale’s head. He keeps glancing over at Sam, how his suit pants pull up tight over his thighs and how much he wants to touch them, but he can’t. 

“Why’re you takin’ me home?” Cale asks, his voice still a little slurred. He watches out the window as Sam misses the exit that leads to the hotel. “Where are you taking me?” 

“I’m taking you to my house. I said I keep an eye on you.” He says, brushing at Cale’s shoulder to get him to stop leaning so far towards the window. 

“Wouldn’t you rather keep an eye on EJ?” Cale asks bitterly. “There’s more of him to look at. He’s so big. I bet he’s got a huge dick. Does he?” 

Sam blinks, and laughs at him, and curses in French. Cale slinks down more into his seat. “No, I’d rather look at the dick I’ve been thinking about for two years, thanks.” Sam says, placing a hand on Cale’s thigh, and something low and warm immediately pools in Cale’s stomach and goes straight to his cock. 

“Me?” Cale asks. “Mine? My dick? Me and me dick?” Sam pats his thigh reassuringly. 

“Yes, dumbass, you and your dick.” Sam says, moving his hand up Cale’s thigh to cup Cale’s increasingly hardening cock through his suit pants. Sam keeps his hand there for a while, slowly stroking him through the fabric of his pants. Cale braces against his seat, savoring Sam’s touch as he palms him carefully, vibrating with the motion of the car. 

They reach a turn Sam has to use two hands for, and Cale takes the opportunity to get his much bigger hands on Sam’s thighs, pulling at his button and zipper to fish Sam’s half-hard cock out of his pants. Sam sputters and mentions something about how he’s driving Makars, but his cock is as long and slender and beautiful as Cale remembers it, and he very much wants to get his mouth on it. 

“I’ve been thinking about your dick for two years too,” Cale says cheekily, before leaning down to lick a long stripe up Sam’s dick, and take him into his mouth. He’s very glad Sam has tinted windows, so he doesn’t have to worry about hiding himself as he mouths hungrily at Sam’s cock, taking him in and pulling off in rhythm with the streets of Denver. 

Sam’s hand finds its way to thread into Cale’s hair, and his fingers splay over the back of Cale’s head, playing a steady drumbeat over the spots on the back of Cale’s neck he’d had his mouth on so long ago. He whispers things in French, half-appreciative and half-disbelieving, petting Cale’s head softly as he fucks into his mouth. Cale’s tongue laves over his cock, swirling over the side and the head—they make a turn, and Cale presses his tongue tight against the side of Sam’s dick, and he curses again. 

They must make a stop at a particularly long red light, or maybe Sam slows down to make sure they stop just as the light’s turning red, because he takes his hands off the wheel to press down on Cale’s shoulders and buck up into his mouth. “Cale,” he says. “Cale, I’m going to—” 

Cale pulls off just to lap at the head of Sam’s cock, wrapping his hand tight around the base and jerking upwards to milk the come out of him, half of it flooding his mouth and the rest spilling out over his lips and the hollow of his cheeks.

Sam is breathing hard as he tries to collect himself when the light finally turns green. Cale draws away, come dripping from his chin, and he smiles at Sam, bright as he can, and Sam skirts the speed limit the rest of the way to settle into his driveway and kiss that smile off of him. 

// 

They don’t fuck that night, no matter how much Cale wants to, because Sam is determined to do it when Cale isn’t drunk. Instead, Sam jerks him off in the shower, Cale borrows one of his Avalanche shirts and sweats—they’re a little small on him, but they work—Sam puts on some Netflix show about baking they don’t really watch, and they make out until they fall asleep in Sam’s California King. 

Cale wakes up before him for once, still getting used to the time difference, and he’s feeling a little peaky, but not altogether too hungover, especially when he notices Sam has shifted position in his sleep so he’s on his stomach, nuzzling into one of his pillows. His ass is pert and inviting, and Cale licks his lips. 

He leans over to Sam, brushes a curl behind his ear and punctuates it with a kiss, rousing him gently by his shoulder. “Hey, Sam, babe,” Cale says, kissing the side of Sam’s head softly. “I’m gonna eat you out, okay?” Sam makes a sleepy, but affirmative noise, and Cale takes that as his cue to pull Sam’s sweatpants down around his knees and off. 

Sam’s ass is even paler than the rest of him, in the dim morning light, though Cale isn’t really one to talk. Cale rests his hands on them, for a second, massaging them appreciatively as he pulls the globes of his ass apart to reveal his tight, pretty hole. Cale runs his thumb in circles over it experimentally, savoring the light exhale that comes from Sam, now softly snoozing again. 

He prods lightly to tease Sam’s hole open with his fingers, before leaning down and lapping his tongue over. Sam’s breath quickens from underneath him, and Cale takes that as a cue to start in earnest. He laps at Sam’s hole with as much focus and tenacity as Sam gives to anything, fucking him open with his tongue until Sam is groaning and gasping over the sheets. 

“Fuck, Cale!” Sam moans into his pillow as Cale plunges his tongue deep into his tight hole. “I thought I was dreaming.” He admits, breathless, and Cale pulls away, still petting at Sam’s hole with his fingers, to smile at him. 

“Was it a nice dream, at least?” Cale asks placidly, and Sam curses. He reaches over to the bedside table, fishing in the cabinet for something, and comes out with lube and a box of condoms, some of which scatter over the bedspread and floor as he throws them both towards Cale. 

“It will be a nice dream if you get something inside of me!” Sam hisses, wriggling under Cale’s ministrations. Cale smiles a little wider, and uncaps the lube—pineapple flavored, apparently—and spreads it over his fingers. He leans back in to lick into Sam’s hole a few more times, running his tongue in circles over it now that he can hear Sam’s little bitten off groans, now that he’s properly awake. Sam makes another impatient noise, and Cale indulges him by easing a finger inside of him, and then another, crooking them slightly as he searches for Sam’s prostate. 

Sam cries out at the sensation of Cale fucking up into him with his fingers, biting down on the pillow as he bucks his ass up for more. Cale gives him another finger for good measure, honing in on Sam’s prostate and savoring the sound he makes when he pushes up against it again and again with his fingers. Cale thinks about getting Sam off like this, with his tongue and his fingers again, but Sam says something about waiting two years to actually get fucked by him, and Cale decides against making him wait any longer. 

He pours out a liberal amount of lube to slick himself up and gets the condom on as quickly as he can before he leans over Sam to wrap his arm around his shoulders, kissing over his neck, as the head of his cock lines up with his crease, catches on the rim of his hole. He pushes in slowly, but firmly, wrapping an arm around Sam’s chest and pulling him closer as he bottoms out. Sam exhales when he does, like something’s clicked into place. 

After a few seconds, he bucks his ass up and down, trying to get Cale to move, so he does. He fucks into Sam with a steady rhythm, punctuating each thrust with a kiss between his shoulder blades. 

He reaches around Sam to wrap his hand around him, jacking him off in time with his thrusts, and it doesn’t take long for Sam to come all over himself. Sam tightens around him when he comes, and Cale’s breath catches. “Where, where do you want it?” 

Sam says something in French, realizes Cale doesn’t understand him, and says: “On me, Cale. On me.” 

Cale slips out of Sam as quick as he can, stripping the condom off, and obliges him, jacking himself off to come all over Sam’s already come-splattered stomach and chest, painting his face and hair with it. His come is pearled white over Sam’s skin, mixed in with his eyelashes, and there’s even a bit of it on Sam’s wrist, on the edge of his tattoo sleeve. He’s filthy, and beautiful. 

Cale grabs his wrist, holds it to his mouth, and licks the come off like the salt from a shot. Sam giggles, breathless. 

“So, was that everything you’ve been waiting for?” Cale asks. “Me and my dick?” Sam just looks at him with wide, brown eyes, and leans over him to kiss him quiet. 

//

They win the next one, and Cale gets as many points in as many games. His parents fly out ahead of him to meet him before he—before he gets to play what could be an elimination playoff game in his hometown for his third NHL game. He spends every moment he can sneak away with Sam, wrapped up in him, inside of him, and it’s starting to be something as much on the ice as off it—whispering about putting them together once Sam heals up enough for the doctors to clear him. The front office tells him he should find somewhere more permanent than his hotel, and even though Sam has a free room they could pretend to use, that feels bigger than Cale wants to put a label on things right now, so he agrees to move in with Calvert and his family. It’s better for him, he thinks, to keep himself from getting too spoiled. 

For as much as Cale is convinced that Sam very much wants to have sex with him—if the frankly raucous amount of sex they’ve been having is any indication—he still finds himself watching Sam and EJ together as they oscillate around each other getting their luggage on the plane, sniping at one another as they set up a game of Mario Kart. 

He doesn’t have a normal seat partner yet, given that this is his first time on the team plane, so it’s not too much of a surprise when Gabe sits next to him. 

“So I didn’t know you and G knew each other so well.” Gabe says, settling into his seat and adjusting the sleep mask—silk and monogrammed, Cale notes--around his neck. 

Cale’s not sure how well he actually knows Sam Girard, but he guesses he’s gotten pretty good at having sex with him.

Instead of like, saying that to his new captain, Cale just shrugs. “You know, Team Canada.” 

From several seats away, EJ curses loudly and accuses Sam of being a blue shell hoarding traitor. Gabe makes a face, and looks at Cale imperceptibly. “I can guess.”

// 

They don’t even have to ask to be road roommates. It really seems like Bednar and the coaching staff are trying to push this partnership, though Cale’s pretty sure Jared really didn’t expect the two of them to start stripping off their clothes and making out as soon as the door closed—although, with this team, Cale wouldn’t put it past him not to count out anything like that. 

Sam has Cale shirtless up against the headboard, kissing his neck, when he says, “I want to fuck you.” 

“Is that not what we’ve been doing?” Cale asks. “I don’t have a lot of experience, but I was like, pretty sure.” 

“No,” Sam scoffs, pinching one of his nipples a little too hard. “I want to fuck you.” 

Cale blinks, pauses from where he’s rubbing his chest. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, boy.” He looks up at Sam, straddling him impatiently, and he nods. “Sounds dope.” 

Sam smiles triumphantly, and kisses him. He peppers kisses down Cale’s chest, paying special attention to Cale’s abused nipple as he pulls down Cale’s shorts. He makes his way down to between Cale’s thighs, biting each one in turn before spreading Cale’s legs a little to get to his hole. 

He licks at his rim a couple of times curiously, and the feeling of Sam’s talented tongue dancing over his hole sends shivers down Cale’s spine. He eats him out until he’s loose and squirming, before replacing his tongue with his long, elegant fingers. Sam opens him up methodically for what feels like hours, relentlessly crooking his fingers against Cale’s prostate like he’s taking apart a puzzle. 

“Sam, baby, come on,” Cale curses at him, and Sam nods at him. He pushes Cale farther back against the headboard so he can settle in between his thighs, and he slowly starts to push his dick inside of him. 

Sam’s cock isn’t as thick as Cale’s, but it’s long and it feels like forever before he bottoms out, thighs pressed against Cale’s hips. He leans down to capture Cale’s lips in a greedy kiss, running a hand over to play with his nipples as he fucks into him. 

Sam fucks like he skates, quick and technically perfect, so focused that Cale feels like he’s falling apart and being put back together with every thrust. It’s longer than they usually take, Sam taking his time fucking him, kissing over every inch of him like he’s marking a claim. 

Eventually, Sam wraps a hand around his dick and jacks him off slowly, in time with each thrust. It’s excruciating, and Cale squirms under his touch as he strips at his dick and fucks into him, leaning down to lave his tongue in circles over Cale’s nipple. 

Cale comes like that, all over both of them, and Sam doesn’t take much longer to finish inside of him. 

“Fuck Calgary.” Sam says, breathless as he collapses against Cale, his come mixing in a sticky mess over their stomachs. “You’re ours now.” 

Cale laughs incredulously, curling into Sam’s touch. “Is that what this was about?” He asks. 

“No,” Sam lies, but he latches on to kiss a mark into the nape of his neck anyway. 

They beat the Flames, and get into the second round, and Cale doesn’t have to spend anymore time in Calgary than necessary. Things work out. 

// 

During the break, Nate, Wilson, and Big Z all get rinkside—courtside?—tickets to a Nuggets playoff game, and Gabe decides magnanimously that they should all go, and gets a whole section for them. Cale likes basketball, as much as any athlete likes any other sport, but some of Sam’s friends have shown up and they’re all wearing cowboy hats, and he finds he likes that even better. 

Gabe is having too much fun with the rally towel and EJ is drinking way too much—they let Cale have one beer, and Grubi is on duty to slap any other drink that manages to find its way into his hands right out. Sam is sitting behind him, with his friends, occasionally kicking his seat or brushing the back of Cale’s head with his hand lazily. 

He’s spread out over the seat, cowboy hat perched on his head, all long limbs and easy smirk. It’s quite a picture. Sometimes Cale throws popcorn at him when he’s not looking, and hands the popcorn to Grubi to clear his name when Sam looks back. It doesn’t work, and eventually Grubi stops letting him have the popcorn bucket. 

A camera crew starts heading towards them, and there’s a weight on Cale’s head as Sam presses his cowboy hat onto him. 

“Yeehaw.” Sam says, solemnly. 

“Hawyee.” Cale responds. Sam’s laugh is as pure and melodic as his singing, and Cale wants to kiss him so badly. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees EJ, completely downing a beer, and mouthing ‘Hawyee.’ 

//

They take one of the rickshaws through downtown, just for the hell of it. Sam’s friends let the two of them have one to themselves, which Cale is thankful for. Cale’s still wearing the cowboy hat. The banners with their jersey numbers flutter between the fairy lights, and Sam looks up at them reverently. 

“Look, there’s you.” Sam points out, and sure enough, there’s his name and jersey fluttering in the wind. His hand is resting on the bench of the rickshaw, half-shadowed in the moonlight.

“They did that fast.” Cale remarks, inching his own hand towards Sam’s, glancing to make sure the rickshaw driver isn’t watching. 

“You—” Sam trails off for a second, trying to identify the phrase in English, and Cale takes the opportunity to hook their palms together, and squeeze. Sam lets out a breath, and smiles deeply. “You sneak up on people fast, Cale Makars.” 

“Nah,” Cale says, rubbing his thumb in circles over Sam’s wrist. “I must be doing something right, to make the right people notice.” 

The rickshaw driver gets distracted by a car driving past, and Cale takes the opportunity to steal the quickest of kisses. 

//

Cale carries Sam into his bedroom, Sam’s legs wrapped around his hips, his arms draped over his shoulders, and deposits him on the bed in a little heap of Frenchman. 

“Yeehaw.” Cale says, giving Sam a fluttering kiss. 

“Hawyee.” Sam says back, pulling Cale down to kiss him deeper. “I want to ride you, cowboy.” Sam whispers, and Cale chuckles. 

“Yee-fucking-haw.” He says again, and gets to work unbuttoning Sam’s shirt. They strip each other, but when it comes to the cowboy hat, Sam tells him to keep it on while he eats him out. 

Cale historically has a lot of trouble not giving Sam Girard whatever he wants, so he’s not going to argue with that. 

He props his head up against the headboard and tips his hat up so Sam can sit backwards on his face. It’s a bit of an awkward angle, but it works well enough for Cale to lick up into him, cowboy hat more leaning against Sam’s back than staying on his head as he tonguefucks Sam’s hole. 

He holds Sam’s thighs up to draw his legs apart for more purchase, tongue lapping greedily at the walls of Sam’s hole. Sam is keening, cursing in more than one language, gripping the headboard tight to keep aloft as he arches backwards to get more, deeper. 

When Sam’s ready, he pushes himself off of Cale and rolls the condom on him himself, so he can ease himself down on Cale’s cock, inch by inch. He fucks himself for a while, pounding down from tip to base, Cale just pushing down on his thighs before he gets the idea to pick Sam up again. He wraps an arm around Sam’s back to hold him up as he fucks into him, knee-walking to flip them so Sam pushes up against the headboard. 

“So,” Cale mutters, a devilish thought entering his head. “You really don’t want EJ to fuck you like this?” Sam stutters, his hand buckling beneath him as he scrambles for purchase on the bed. 

“Wha-what?” He starts, hesitatingly, and his back starts to flush even redder. “No, I want you—” 

“He could be here, with us.” Cale ventures. “I’d fuck you like this, or I’d bend you over, he’d take your mouth.” He slides out of Sam, almost, except for the tip catching against the rim of his hole, before sliding back in. “We could take turns on you, fill you up.” Sam groans, a mess underneath him, and Cale threads a hand in his hair, pulls close enough to his ear to whisper. “Or he could fuck me, while you watch.” 

With that, Sam comes, coating his stomach and Cale’s with it, and tightens so much around Cale that he doesn’t last much longer, filling the condom while still deep in Sam. 

Cale ties the condom off and throws it haphazardly towards the bin, and then pulls Sam close, taking the cowboy hat off of his head and putting it on Sam’s. “Was that too much?” He asks, and Sam shakes his head. 

“It was unexpected.” He says, but he’s smiling a little. “Do you really want a threesome?” 

Cale considers, and presses a kiss deep in the nape of Sam’s neck. “Not yet, maybe.” He shrugs. “Maybe we’ll figure it out.” 

Sam smiles. “We always do.”

// 

They put the line-up out with breakfast, and Cale finds his new d-partner wrapped up the sheets in a hotel in San Jose, fucked out and still half-asleep, and he kisses him awake. 

“They gave me a new partner.” Cale teases, fluttering a kiss in the corner of Sam’s mouth, where Sam quirks up a smirk. 

“Yeah?” Sam yawns, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “What’s he like?” 

“He’s a little smaller than I thought he would be.” 

Sam snorts, and arches up to kiss him. “Not where it matters,” Sam murmurs, against his lips, and Cale can’t disagree with that.

**Author's Note:**

> cue two twinks seducing an older man in a hotel room in san jose to fuck his groove back
> 
> i make no promises, but maybe if the avs don't destroy me emotionally we'll get that but until then check me out on [tumblr](https://samgirard.tumblr.com)


End file.
